Little Boy
by Chaotica
Summary: A little boy who can't see what he's meant for just yet.


Little Boy  
  
The woman sat on the couch looking withdrawn. Her eyes stared aimlessly across the room. She was very thin and looked like she'd been through a lot.  
"Mommy?"  
Her head turned slightly at the voice. "What is it baby?"  
The boy blinked. "Never mind." He turned and walked off.  
She went back to staring.  
The boy went into his room. They had moved recently to a new town so boxes were still around.   
The room itself was fairly small but not bad for such an undersized child. He climbed up on his bed which was still a mess from the night before. He wore a worn T-shirt with a fluffy bunny on the front.   
He curled up on himself in the dim light from a single window. His mommy wasn't feeling well again. He felt it was because of him. Because he was born wrong. His daddy often commented on how life had been better before. How everything had been good.  
No one at school liked him. He was around nine now and a complete and utter outcast from society. His family didn't have much money. His father worked two jobs.   
The front door slammed open. A male voice could be heard through the closed bedroom door. Daddy was home.  
The boy pulled himself farther on the bed. He was small and thin with stark black hair and hauntingly dark eyes. His hands clenched closed then relaxed and repeated the action.  
His eyes locked unconsciously on a little nameplate on a chest by his bed. His aunt Mariah, his mothers' sister, had given it to him for his birthday last year. She was the only one who got him nice things.  
It was cut out of wood in the shape of his name in a neat blocky script. It had a high polish and a fuzzy green bottom.  
He blinked and his eyes darted around the room. Would daddy come in here? Would he be mad that he wasn't done un-packing?  
"Where is he?" The questioned was muffled through the door but still obviously his father.  
Oh shit. His breathing quickened. He pushed himself farther against the wall his bed sat along.   
The door opened. The older man came in glancing around the dim room. Oh fuck he looked drunk.  
"You're not done unpacking." The deep voice slurred. "Why not?" He was using the door as a support. "Well?" He asked harshly.  
The boy cringed. "I'm sorry." He said quietly. "I'll finish it." He really didn't see the point. They would move again soon. Somewhere else, no place any better than the last.  
He moved to open a box and unpack more of his things when the man grabbed his arm. "Little punk. When I tell you to do something you damn well better do it the first time." He twisted the small boys' arm.  
"Ow! Daddy stop!" He was flung the chest some of this things were set on. Shapes swam across his vision and he shook violently.  
"What the fucks' wrong with you now?" The man asked grabbing his son again.  
"Stop it!" The boy growled. He was only shaken harder.  
"You stop acting fucked up and I'll stop. What's wrong with you anyway? You're such a freak." He let his son go.   
Not long ago the boy had been required to go to a psychologist. The school counselor said he needed some help adjusting to such rapid changes in environment. He had been found to be a very abnormal child. Totally withdrawn from the world and at high risk for sever mental problems.  
Then they had moved again and of course his case had fallen through the cracks. His problems were never followed up. And he was degenerating at an obviously high rate.  
"Get this room cleaned up and straighten up your damn act or you're going to get something to cry about." The door slammed shut behind him.  
He shivered on the floor. Images flashing through his mind. Blood falling to the floor, sliding off of sharp metal. But he was so small, so young, he couldn't put the pieces together.  
Some day later he would see the correlation between being treated like crap and these images. But for now it all waited patiently under the corroding sanity of a child.  
He didn't cry as he picked up his things from the floor. He put them back up on the chest till he came on his nameplate. It had broken into two pieces. The piece he held in his hand was the last three letters of his name.  
NNY  
  
End 


End file.
